Faith Like A Child
by Tainted Visions
Summary: AU. What if Voldemort had taken Harry as a baby instead of trying to murder him? What if, unbeknownst to Harry, he was following in the footsteps of the man who murdered his parents? Dark, innocent! Harry. Full summary inside.


**Faith Like A Child**

**Rating: M **(For child abuse, language, dark themes, self-mutilation, and torture)

**Summary:** What if Harry had been raised by Voldemort instead of the Dursleys? What if, unbeknownst to Harry, he was following in the footsteps of the man who murdered his parents? Harry is forced to grow from a small child who is put under the most extreme of punishments to understand pain and torment into a teenager looking to find himself all too soon, as the man he believes loves him and who has raised him since he was a baby expects nothing but dark and evil deeds from him, something Harry is not quite prepared to do.

**Chapter 1: Field Of Innocence**

It's raining outside. That's the first thing I remember after awakening from yet another disturbed sleep. I am still sitting on the carpet of my bedroom, unable to move from the beating I received a few hours ago, neck cramped from sleeping in my position, and I can hear the droplets of water falling down and hitting the pavement; The sound is gentle, yet ferocious, upon my eardrums. They feel so hollow now, not real all the way through, as if sound-proofed, and I know they will not go back to normal any time soon. I can still feel the water inside them. I can still feel the stinging burns upon my back, still feel the soft red blood staining my shirt, and I am hunched over as it hurts to sit upright. Normally, any other child would have run to their parent, wanting comfort and soothing hugs, but not me; I learned long ago to never expect comfort. Especially not when hurt.

Of course, I am told that these beatings – these long hours of pain and torture – are to teach me, essential for me to learn to give out pain and punishment to others, as that is what _he_ expects of me, and I have no intention of letting him down. To see failure and disappointment in his eyes when he looks at me hurts far worse than any beating ever could.

As a loud crackle of thunder erupts over the roofing, I whimper and draw my knees to my chest – he had never told me to never fear thunder. Just like he had never told me to never fear the dark. Darkness is my only companion, my only friend, and yet it is my enemy, my mockery, the taunting whispers I hear whenever I shut my eyes to sleep or lie awake in bed with tears running down my face; I was always told to never run from the darkness, but never to not fear it. Perhaps he fears it, too, fears it so much he seeks to never run from it. You should never run from those you fear, he's always told me, and you should never fear those you run from. I think that is the greatest advice he ever gave me, despite whether it be the truth or a deceitful lie.

But I know better – he's never lied to me.

Or that I know of, anyway – he lies to all of his followers, those who have stuck by him and sworn eternal allegiance to him, told them they're his only friends. But are friends supposed to lie to each other..? Again, I'm not sure – I've never had friends.

My head snaps up when I hear him calling my name from the other room. _Harry_. Sometimes I forget that's even my name. He hardly calls me by it. He uses other names for me, whether it be _'brat'_, _'boy' _or _'runt'_; Sometimes, it's _'you' _or _'him' _or even _'the little dark one'_. Where he came up with that name, I have no idea. All I know is that when he calls me that, it means so much more than all of the other names he calls me when he's angry or frustrated or upset – it means he cares, and he's proud of me.

I bolt to my feet despite my aching and blistered back, groaning as I struggle to walk quickly into the other room. I hurriedly brush the tears from my eyes and put on a firm face – he's always hated when I cried, always got angrier when ever I did, always told me that there was no need to cry, as that shows weakness, and the most important thing in the world is to never show weakness. That is yet another bit of advice he's instilled in my mind, and I remember it now with an almost deep proudness, as I seek to perform what he expects of me.

I enter the room, and he's immediately in front of me, looking down at me with those red eyes I've hardly seen express any kind of human emotion. Sometimes I try to please him even more by trying to get my eyes as void of expression as his, but it almost always fails; I try to feel hatred inside, which he always encourages me to feel, but I never can; How do you feel such hatred so easily, without any remorse or thought on what you're doing to another person? How do you sit and laugh unpitiedly as someone around you suffers excruciatingly? How do you inflict such things upon another human body? I still try to answer that in my mind. I still seek to find the answer to this question, yet I have found nothing. I know nothing of hatred, of evil, or darkness. I cannot comprehend a careless and hate-inflicted mind.

"Harry." His eyes lock with mine, red into green, and I look away immediately underneath the intensity of his gaze. Staring and full attentiveness has never been my best task. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, you little prick!"

I hunch my shoulders tensely as he screeches the words in my face. His saliva makes contact with my tender skin, and I do not bother to wipe it away. I force myself to look up, no matter what I may find. His eyes are narrowed, angry and demented-looking, and I quickly prepare my muscles for the punishment I know will come. He never lets my attentiveness waver when he speaks, and severe consequences come when it does. I close my eyes tightly, waiting for the blow to the head or the slap to the face, but it never comes. Opening my eyes, I realize I have angered him even further, for he reaches out and grabs the back of my neck, making me gasp in pain. I feel my neck numb at the hard grip his hands are making around it.

"I thought I taught you to look at people when they're talking to you," He snarls, and tightens his grip. "Or do you think you're above that, you rotten little fish-spawn? Do you think you're so significant that you've expanded beyond the rights of human communication? Answer me, boy!"

I am unsure whether to answer or not; If I say the wrong thing, I'll get punished, and as my back is sore enough from four hours ago, I want no more pain. But fate has never been my most loyal companion. It always backstabs me in the end, and this time is no different. "N – No, sir. I'm not important."

I was always told this too, and I believe it. I always believe every word he speaks to me. He is the Dark Lord. He is Tom Riddle. He is Lord Voldemort. My lord. My guardian, my caretaker, my... parent.

Deep down, I know he is not my father, however; My real father, James Potter I think his name was, left me long ago. Dead, murdered, just like my mom, leaving me to be all alone in the world. That's all I know about them. He never speaks of them, tells me about them, only that they hated me and how my mom wanted an abortion when they found out I was going to be born. When I learned of this, I hated them. I hated them even before that. I hate them even now, and I'll hate them forever. I hate them so much, I'm glad I don't even have pictures of them, for they would have been torn, burned, ripped and dug into a grave just like them repeatedly.

Sometimes I have the urge to go back to my old home, which he told me was Godric's Hollow, and spit on their graves, mock them in the mistake they made for hating me. I am a better person than them. He tells me that when he's proud of me, just like he tells me he loves me and only hurts me to make me a better person and make me stronger. I know he's proud of me when he wraps me in his arms. He is not proud of me now.

"Then do you deny that you deem my words inappropriate and unworthy of your attention? Do you think that your own little fantasy world is more important than what I have to say to you?" He growls, and he wrings my neck, causing me to tremble on my feet.

"No. No, sir. I always listen to you. You're always right, my Lord Voldemort. You are always the only voice I listen to.." My voice cracks as I whisper this, but it seems enough, for he releases my neck, and even through the burning pain that immediately inflicts, I put on my firm face and look him directly in the eye. "My thoughts are less important than your's. I am forever your's to command.."

He seems satisfied by this answer, and I feel a tingling in my stomach that has nothing to do with the growling of my hungry intestines. He's proud of me again. I'm pretty proud of myself, speaking so intelligently for a five-year-old child. Sometimes I feel like I'm older than I am, despite the fact that I'm incredibly small and tiny, bones so narrow and fragile they break easily. More than once I've had to take potions for broken arms or legs, or even necks. That is how severe the punishments have become. A year ago, they were small, not as vile – stomps to the feet, slaps across the face, hair-pulling, thrown on the floor or down the stairs, kicked in the stomach, and beaten with what ever objects he was close to at the moment. Now it's the Cruciatius curse, face smashed into a door, walking on coals or being dunked underneath scalding hot or sometimes ice cold water for minutes at a time. Tonight it was the coals and water dunks, plus a severe beating for walking in on him and the crazy lady Bellatrix kissing. Bellatrix had always scared me; She always looked at me like she was going to eat me or mocked me when I cried, or laughed insanely and caused pain on prisoners that he brings in for his hours of entertainment. Or what he called entertainment.

"Good. Now listen." He speaks softly first, then his voice becomes firm again, and I listen to him with complete attentiveness, hoping to keep him proud of me. "I don't want to keep having to punish you, Harry. But you have to learn. The main thing I want you to remember is always to knock before you enter a room. And wait for a response. If you don't get one, wait outside until someone opens the door. Understood?" He nods at me, and I nod back to show I comprehend. But this does not seem a good enough answer to me, so I clear my throat and elaborate.

"Yes. Of course, sir. I understand." I reply, biting my lip. I am still unsure whether or not he will hit me.

"Good boy." He pats my head fondly, and smiles slightly, and I return it, although more enthusiastically. "Now get into your night clothes and go to bed. I have some business to attend to. Don't let me catch you peeping around while I attend this meeting or wandering around when you should be sleeping otherwise I might not be so linient. Do you understand?"

"Yes." I respond, and he withdraws his hand, running his thumb along my right cheek gingerly, and my skin tingles with a tickle underneath his touch. He nods, and stands, ushering me out of the room.

I walk into the hall and stop at the door to my room and he fails to see me as he walks past, entering the room with the open door down the hall, where I can hear the hushed voices of the Death Eaters and Bellatrix's loud cackles of evil delight. Shuddering, I obey his command and enter my bedroom, taking out my long night t-shirt and black shorts. I wince as I pull off the shirt, the fabric hitting my wound marks, and again as I pull the nightshirt over my head. Frowning, I gently place the blood-soaked shirt onto my desk chair, where he will find it later. He always does. Scrambling into my bed and pulling on the covers, I lie on my side and stare out of the window, the navy blue night sky staring back at me without knowing, the stars shining through my curtains, small rays of light that brighten my room of darkness, and the warm breeze of summer rustling my raven hair.

Closing my eyes, I let myself drift to sleep. Dreams are my only salvation. Dreams filled of bright green light and an evil cackle to whose voice I cannot remember or define, and the screaming of a woman I know to be my mother. I awake tonight from yet that same dream, like I do every other night. I lie in the darkness, my mother's screaming echoing in my ears. How I _loathe_ the sound.

I punch my pillow, anger like flame licking my insides as the screaming intensifies. I find the answer to my question hidden in my dreams. How can you hate so easily? Because hate is all you've known. All _I've_ known. I hate my parents for hating me. Hate has been apart of me since I was born. I can comprehend hatred when I think of my parents, and I enrage it when he expects me to. I know darkness. I know evil. I know hatred.

It's all I have. It's all that I am.

I am the little dark one, the heir to Lord Voldemort. My father. My parent. I am the green-eyed, black-haired boy crying in a corner of my bedroom after a night of torturous beatings. I am the small child that represents all that is insignificant, all that is meaningless and unimportant, all that is worth nothing. I am all of that.

I am Harry Potter.

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**Hope you enjoyed this first chapter. There's a lot more in the making:)**

**- Tainted Visions**


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